Monday, 15 August 2016

Summer Suns are a Glowin’ with #Nancy Jardine

Today is my Summer Suns are a Glowin’ Monday Moments slot with myself- Nancy Jardine

During this short series, I’ve had some author guests sharing their typical summer distractions, things which secrete them away from their writing, or in some cases they’ve shared how they cope with writing during lovely summer days.

I’ve never cracked the technique of writing outside using my laptop and it’s extremely rare when I put pen to paper – or in my case a pencil, more natural to me since I’m an ex- primary teacher. I can never get myself in the correct amount of shade to write even when I wear my rather large sunhat. I can only cope with attempting to write for a short time before I up sticks and retreat inside.

However, being outside always reminds me of garden jobs that are overdue and since I’m the gardener the responsibility is mine. Today is a beautiful day, if a little windy. My photography isn’t up to scratch but I do try with my little Coolpix point to and press the shutter camera. There is some nice colour dotted around my front garden this year but in the words of Lady Catherine de Bourgh in Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen- I have “a pretty little wilderness’ going on in my side garden which is too embarrassing to photograph. My angelica has taken a battering during the recent high winds in July and August and what should be a tall stately plant is a poor looking bowed over mess just now.

But back to my writing. I do it inside at the desk by my dining room window. Sneaking a look outside happens often and it’s especially drawing when the magpies appear or when the woodpigeons and blackbirds frighten off the little birds, generally wrens and robins.  

And then there are my lovely grand children who pop in from next door to brighten up my day and to check on the fairy house and garden.  

Distractions are plenty but what I’m aiming for these days is better discipline to keep my writing on track. 

Today I'm aiming for adding a new chunk to my WIP and trying not to edit out too much of what I've already written over the day. I really want my Books 4 and 5 of my Celtic Fervour Series to be really the absolute best I can make them.

What more can I say?  

Here's a little from the 'Dump' section of my work in progress:

A rush of pure hatred mixed with an unbidden fear almost had her snapping the soggy debris beneath her leather-clad feet as she sidled to the nearby mature beech. In the forest gloom, her thoughts were as murky as the wood around her. Alban elued was upon them, though she doubted there would be much to the ceremony around the fireside of her family when she returned to them. It was her habit to welcome this happy time, when the daylight shared an equal time with the dark and the last of the crops were gathered in but presently the forest god, Cernunnos, favoured neither her, nor her family.
The summer warmth of Lugh was only a memory. An early chill had rapidly descended since dawn causing a cascade of colourful leaf drop to glide down. The red gold of the leaves might have been appealing had the day been a fair one but Cernunnos was demonstrating his ire at the deeds of men in his precious territory. The mush of the soggy leaves was treacherous underfoot.
Reining in her anxiety, she snatched a breath before the cries of her answering crossbill call acknowledged she understood how many of the enemy needed to be dealt with. Hunkering down behind the trunk, she drew her bratt tighter around her head, her fingers numb and clumsy as she tucked in her wayward side plaits. The measure was poor protection for her shivering body, the relentless pelt of hail stinging her cheeks like she imagined a branding tine would do, though she had yet to experience that. Knowing observation was all that was required of her for the moment, she knelt down on one knee finding a better balance point, her woollen braccae sodden. The softest of plops hit the wet tree roots beneath her as she scanned the vicinity, melted hail trickling down from her chin. No part of her was dry but she could do nothing about that state. Not until much later and after her turn at surveillance was over.
After a long interval, her breathing shallow to suppress the complaints her aching muscles wanted to scream out, the faint bird-chat of Colm and Feargus was just discernible on her left before the signal came to move on. She couldn’t see Colm, only his spear, the tip of which nudged a gentle indication towards the edge of the forest. Progressively, and with great caution, she edged from tree to tree, winding her way through the wood which clad the foothills of Drumgoodrum. She knew by the responses from Colm and Feargus that the fourth warrior of their scouting party, Nith, was the only one of them who had the Roman soldiers in view.


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